Starts she in her sleeping glory,

And her brown arms, jewelled, bare, Round and rich in queenly beauty, Wildly cleave the slumberous air. Beads of perspiration gather

On her matchless woman's brow, While her parted lips in anguish

Tell of heart-pangs none may know.

Sure some vision, dire and dreadful,
Palls upon her eyes and brain,
Piercing to her being's center
With a fiery shaft of pain.
Like a sea her full-orbed bosom
Swells and falls with pent-up ire;
Then her spirit breaks its thralldom,
And she shrieks, in wild despair:
"Charmian, quick, unloose my girdle,
Give me breath! I faint! I die!
Ho! slaves, bring my royal galley,
Let us hence to Egypt fly.
Oh for vengeance on the traitor,
And upon his Roman bride!
Let him never dare-ah, Charmian,
Stand you closely by my side.

"Do I dream? Is this my palace-
Von my sweetly flowing Nile?
A., I see-O great Osiris,

How I thank thee for thy smile!
Oh, I've had such fearful vision-

He, my Antony, untrue!

And my heart was nigh to bursting With its fearful weight of woe.

"But 't is over; yet I trembleOn what brink of fate I stand; What prophetic bird of evil

Hovers o'er this sacred land!

What if true should come my dreaming,
And no more my love returns!
Ah, the thought my heart's blood freezes,
While my brain with madness burns."

Then she listened, gazing outward
Toward a dim futurity:
And the Nile forever onward
Bears its burdens to the sea;
And she catches from its whispers,
Echoing whispers in her soul—
That her reign of love is ended,
And her life is near its goal.

J. J. OWENS.

CLEOPATRA'S SOLILOQUY.

WHAT care I for the tempest? what care I for the

rain?

If it beat upon my bosom, would it cool its burning pain,

This pain that ne'er has left me since on his heart I lay,

And sobbed my grief at parting as I'd sob my soul

away?

O Antony! Antony! Antony! when in thy circling

arms

Shall I sacrifice to Eros my glorious woman's charms,

And burn life's sweetest incense before his sacred shrine,

With the living fire that flashes from thine eyes into mine?

Oh, when shall I feel thy kisses rain down upon my face,

As. a queen of love and beauty, I lie in thine embrace,

Melting, melting, melting, as a woman only can When she's a willing captive in the conquering arms of man,

As he towers, a god, above her?—and to yield is not defeat,

For love can own no victor if love with love shall meet!

I still have regal splendor, I still have queenly power,

And, more than all, unfaded is woman's glorious dower.

But what care I for pleasure? what's beauty to me now,

Since Love no longer places his crown upon my brow?

I have tasted its elixir, its fire has through me flashed,

But when the wine glowed brightest, from my eager lips 't was dashed.

And I would give all Egypt, but once to feel the bliss

Which thrills through all my being when 'er I meet his kiss.

The tempest wildly rages, my hair is wet with rain,

But it does not still my longing or cool my burning pain.

For Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of my soul

When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a queen's control.

I fear not pale Octavia; that haughty Roman dame, My lion of the desert, my Antony, can tame;

I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid; The world holds not the woman of whom I am afraid.

But I'm jealous of the rapture I tasted in his kiss, And I would not that another should share with me that bliss.

No joy would I deny him, let him cull it where he will,

So mistress of his bosom is Cleopatra still,

So that he feels forever, when he Love's nectar sips,

'T was sweeter, sweeter, sweeter when tasted on my lips;

So that all other kisses, since he has drawn in mine,

Shall be unto my lovéd, as

water after wine."

A while let Cæsar fancy Octavia's pallid charms Can hold Rome's proudest consul a captive from these arms.

Her cold embrace but brightens the memory of mine,

And for my warm caresses he in her arms shall pine.

'T was not for love he sought her, but for her princely dower;

She brought him Cæsar's friendship, she brought him kingly power.

I should have bid him take her, had he my counsel sought,

I've but to smile upon him, and all her charms are nought;

For I would scorn to hold him by but a single hair Save his own longing for me when I'm no longer there;

And I will show you, Roman, that for one kiss from me

Wife, fame, and even honor to him shall nothing be!

Throw wide the window, Isis, fling perfumes o'er

me now,

And bind the lotus-blossoms again upon my brow.

The rain has ceased its weeping, the driving storm is past,

And calm are Nature's pulses that lately beat so fast. Gone is my jealous frenzy, and Eros reigns serene, The only god e'er worshipped by Egypt's haughty

queen.

With Antony, my lovéd, I'll kneel before his shrine Till the loves of Mars and Venus are nought to his and mine;

And down through coming ages, in every land and tongue,

With them shall Cleopatra and Antony be sung. Burn sandal-wood and cassia; let the vapor round me wreathe,

And mingle with the incense the lotus-blossoms breathe;

Let India's spicy odors and Persia's perfumes rare Be wafted on the pinions of Egypt's fragrant air. With the singing of the night breeze, the river's rippling flow,

Let me hear the notes of music in cadence soft and low.

Draw round my couch its curtains; I'd bathe my

soul in sleep;

I feel its gentle languor upon me slowly creep.
Oh, let me cheat my senses with dreams of future
bliss,

In fancy feel his presence, in fancy taste his kiss,
In fancy nestle closely against his throbbing heart,
And throw my arms around him, no more, no more
to part.

Hush! hush! his spirit's pinions are rustling in my

ears;

He comes upon the tempest to calm my jealous fears;

He comes upon the tempest in answer to my call,— Wife, fame, and even honor, for me he leaves them all; And royally I'll welcome my lover to my side.

I have won him, I have won him, from Cæsar and his bride!

MARY BAYARD CLARK.

CLEOPATRA TO ANTONY.

SPREAD a feast with choicest viandsFriends, 't will be my very last; Bring the rarest flowers to grace it— Haste, my sands of life flow fast! Place an asp beneath the lotus

That shall light me to the grave With its starry petals' splendor; Weep not, let your hearts be brave. Speed, Octavia, with thy minions

Fire thy heart with deadly hate! Thou wilt miss the royal victimCleopatra rules her fate!

She defies Rome's conquering legions!
Let them triumph in her fall!
What is earthly pomp or greatness?
Love, thy love outweighs it all!
Thrones and scepters are but trifles
To my spirit's yearning pain;
What were fortune's gifts witout thee
I would lose the world to gain?
Let no base heart tell our story;

Ages, speak, when time unurns
These dull ashes, say to Ages,

Soul to soul their love still burns.

Fatal asp, thy sleep's not endless,
That the morrow's dawn will prove:
I shall reign in lands Elysian,
Antony's proud Queen of Love!
Isis and Osiris, hear me!

Hear me, gods of boundless power!
Ye have tasted deathless passion!
Ye will guide me to his bower!
Pardon, mighty Ones, the error
If Octavia I bave wronged,
Judged by higher laws supernal;
Ah! how earthly passions thronged;
Overpowering heart and reason,
Nature, answering Nature's call,
Rushed as cloud responsive rushes
On to cloud, to meet and-fall.
Antony, my love, I'm dying!

Curdles fast life's crimson tide,
But no dark Plutonian shadows
Fall between us to divide.
Hark! the Stygian waters swelling,
Call me, love, with thee to rest,—
Death I fear not since thou braved it,
Pillowed on my aching breast.
Strange emotions fill my bosom
As I near the vast unknown;
Yet my heart still throbs, in dying,
Antony, for thee alone.
Oh! "I feel immortal longings,"-

I can brave stern Pluto's frown,-
Robe me in my regal garments,
Deck with jewels, scepter, crown.
Antony! I'm coming! coming!
Open, open wide thine arms!
Ah! the blissful hope of union
Robs the grave of its alarms.
See! the glorious heroes beckon
O'er the Stygian waters' swell.
I shall have immortal crowning!
Egypt-dear old Nile!—farewell.

MRS. SARAH D. CLARKE,

SINGLE POEMS.

BE A WOMAN.

OFT I've heard a gentle mother,
As the twilight hours began,
Pleading with her son of duty,
Urging him to be a man;
But unto her blue-eyed daughter,
Though with love's words quite as ready,
Urges she this other duty,-

"Strive, my dear, to be a lady."
What's a lady? Is it something
Made of hoops and silks and airs,
Used to decorate the parlor,

Like the fancy mats and chairs?
Is it one who wastes on novels
Every feeling that is human?
If 't is this to be a lady,

"T is not this to be a woman.

Mother, then, unto your daughter
Speak of something higher far
Than to be mere fashion's lady-
Woman is the brightest star.

If you in your strong affection
Urge your son to be a true man,
Urge your daughter, no less strongly,
To arise and be a woman.

Yes, a woman-brightest model

Of that high and perfect beauty Where the mind and soul and body Blend, to work out life's great duty. Be a woman! Naught is higher

On the gilded list of fame;
On the catalogue of virtue
There's no brighter, holier name.

Be a woman! On to duty!

Raise the world from all that 's low;
Place high in the social heaven
Virtue's fair and radiant bow;

Lend thy influence to each effort
That shall raise our natures human;
Be not fashion's gilded lady,-

Be a brave, whole-souled, true woman!
-EDWARD BROOKS.

SUPPLICATION.

O LOVE Divine! lay on me burdens if Thou wilt, To break Thy faithless one-hour watchman's shameful sleep!

Turn comforts into awful prophets to my guilt! Close to Thy garden travail let me wake and

weep!